


A Father

by biblionerd07



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 15:08:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during S3 while Jesse's in rehab.  When Jesse's parents try to visit, Walt lets them know who Jesse's real father is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Father

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://brbakinkmeme.livejournal.com/521.html?thread=22025#t22025/) prompt over at the Breaking Bad Kink Meme

He was approaching the front desk when he heard the last name that had become second to his own coming out of the receptionist’s mouth in a skeptical tone, so different from the bright greeting she used on him.

“Pinkman?” She was asking warily, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the people standing in front of her.

“Yes, we heard our son, Jesse, was here.”

“ _Your_ son.” She was keeping her voice polite, but it was going flat around the edges. She was confused. Jesse Pinkman’s father had been visiting every other day for the entire three weeks he’d been there.

“What’s going on here?” Walt asked as he approached the desk.

“Mr. Pinkman,” the receptionist greeted him, giving the other two people a puzzled look out of the corner of her eye. “These people are saying they’re Jesse’s parents?”

They were staring at him, and Walt thought he saw Jesse’s cheekbones on the woman and perhaps the quirk of his upper lip on the man, but he didn’t recognize them other than from Jesse’s features on their faces. He suddenly remembered they had not come to parent/teacher conferences all those years ago—even after he had called and personally asked them to come, said he had concerns about Jesse—and for some reason that made him so angry he had to take a few deep breaths to steady himself.

“Mr. Pinkman?” The man scoffed and Walt almost saw Jesse’s arrogance in him, except in this man it was more sinister, more entitled, while Jesse’s was borne of insecurity.

“Why don’t we talk about this outside?” Walt suggested, because he could see some patients in their fluffy green robes roaming about and the last thing these people needed was a family drama unfolding in front of them.

Jesse’s mother looked mostly confused and a little hesitant, but the man—Walt could not bring himself to think of that man as Jesse’s father—was all indignant blustering.

“We want to see our son!” He insisted, and Walt felt his face grown stony.

“Come outside.” He commanded, not pretending to be polite anymore, and he felt extreme satisfaction at the way fear took the smugness out of that man’s eyes. They followed him out of the glass door and Walt took one, two, three, steadying breaths.

“Who are you?” Jesse’s mother’s head was titled to the side, as if she recognized Walt’s face but his relation to her world was just out of her reach.

“I’m Jesse’s father.” He said, starting off in a silky, almost safe tone. He watched the confusion spread onto both their faces.

“What?” The man was scoffing again. He seemed to do that a lot, and Walt got a mental flash of him rebuffing a pint-sized Jesse who wanted to play in the red, barren dirt. He felt his jaw clench. How many times had he and Junior dug holes (“All the way to China, Dad!”) even though he’d known it was pointless? That’s what a father did, and he had no doubts whatsoever that this man had not done that.

“What does a father do?” Walt kept his voice neutral. He could have been asking a freshman what a chemical bond was. “A father takes care of his son.” He was falling away from Walter White then, gliding effortlessly into Heisenberg, and he relished it. They had ignored Walter White’s efforts, years ago, to get them interested in their son. They would listen to Heisenberg’s rebuke.

“A _father_ listens to his son, no matter how what he’s saying. A _father_ does what’s best for his son. A _father_ —” His face was screwed up in anger now, stepping closer to the man, in his space, nearly standing on his foot. “A _father_ ,” he spat, “does not abandon his son. A _father_ does not leave his son homeless and at the mercy of any _criminal_ on the street.”

He had backed the man up against the wall, his blood rushing though his veins as he heard the woman gasp and watched the man’s eyes widen, heard his breathing speed up, could practically _feel_ his heart pumping hard and fast as adrenaline and fear coursed through him. Now he was standing on the man’s foot, or rather grinding his heel into it, and the man cried out in pain.

He should feel privileged it was just his foot.

“You have done _nothing_ for Jesse.” Walt let his judgment fall like a guillotine. “You don’t deserve to ever be in the same room with him again.”

With a final push of the man into the glass, Walt straightened his shoulders, glared once more at the pair, and walked through the glass doors again. The receptionist looked at him questioningly.

“Is everything alright, Mr. Pinkman?” She asked.

“Vultures.” He responded disgustedly. “Trying to take advantage of my son.”

She frowned at the door. “It happens too often. I’m so sorry about that.”

Jesse was working on his flower patch when Walt found him. The sight of him digging in the dirt, a soft smile on his face and his eyes clear, made Walt’s anger fade. Jesse looked up as Walt knelt beside him.

“Nah, Mr. White, don’t get dirt on your pants.” Jesse insisted. Walt smiled.

“It’s okay, son.” He said quietly. “I can dig with you.”

Jesse looked a little quizzical—they were just transferring potted plants into loose soil; there wasn't really a lot of digging to be done—but he smiled as he passed Walt a spade.


End file.
